


Not That Kind of Worm

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Gen, I think we don't talk enough about Frank's childhood trauma, I thoroughly maintain that Charlie and Frank do not have a pure and wholesome relationship, Nightcrawlers - Freeform, always going down the rabbit hole and winding up with 5k, always trying to write quick one-shot fics, and to involuntary institutionalization, but that's not what this fic is about either, it's Frank and Charlie, it's not as dark as it might sound based on these tags though, so here you go, so this contains allusions to it, the way people so often claim, until today!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 16:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: What do you do after you have a nightmare about being a frog kid in a giant net? Wind down with a good game of Nightcrawlers, of course!(A quick, kinda silly, kinda soft lil fic about Charlie and Frank.)
Relationships: Charlie Kelly & Frank Reynolds
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Not That Kind of Worm

Charlie wakes up in the dark to the distinct feeling of Frank thrashing around next to him on the futon.

_“Look out for the net,”_ Frank shouts at the top of his lungs.

Charlie is grateful, for not the first time, that their neighbors aren’t nearly as uptight as Mac and Dennis’s are. Those assholes freak out over nothing: a little debate-shouting between friends, middle-of-the-night wrestling matches in the living room, that sort of thing. They almost certainly would have a problem with Frank's early morning shouting about frog kids and nets.

With a sigh, Charlie stumbles out of bed to turn on the nearest lamp. As soon as the light goes on, Frank spots him, and his eyes go wide. Waving his arms in big circles like a windmill, Frank calls out again: _“Duck, Charlie!”_

Charlie frowns. “Dude, calm down. You're dreamin', man.”

Frank takes a deep breath, like maybe he’s about to scream again. But then he pauses, squints in Charlie’s direction, and blinks hard a couple times. He fumbles, reaching for his glasses; puts them on; and peers cautiously around the room. “No nets?”

“Nah, no nets.” Charlie shrugs. “We’re good.”

It’s dream logic. Charlie knows better than anybody how persistent that shit can be — the way it follows you into the next day like a phantom. Except you can’t talk about it, because then people might feel sorry for you. Either that, or they'll scowl and throw their hands up in the air, and say shit like: _It’s just a dream, man. It wasn’t real. Move past it._

That's not any help, though, because it _felt_ real. Brains don’t always know the difference between dreams and reality, at least, not when you're dreaming. Fortunately, Frank seems awake enough now to have figured it out.

“A’ight,” he says, and slumps a little farther down into the futon. "No nets."

“Hey, but I bet I know what’ll cheer you up!”

Frank considers it for a second or two, before his face lights up. “Nightcrawlers?”

“Nightcrawlers,” agrees Charlie with a nod.

“Yes,” Frank says, drawing out the "s" like a little old snake hissing with happiness.

Charlie ducks down and rummages around beside the futon, in search of his newest treasure. He uncovered it while wandering around the neighborhood on his lunch break that afternoon. However, he and Frank had gotten overly absorbed in their usual pre-bedtime rituals: Nightcrawlers, followed by cat food, beer, and glue. In the end, Charlie completely forgot the dramatic reveal he’d been planning all evening.

“Wait,” Franks says right as Charlie uncovers the plastic bag containing his treasure. “No. Hang on. _No._ ‘Cause what do worms turn into, Charlie, huh?”

“Uh. Turn _into?”_ echoes Charlie. “Nothing. They don’t turn into anything. They’re just worms, man.”

“Wrong! They turn into cocoons, and then they come out as butterflies. Big, fancy, gay butterflies. And you know what happens to butterflies?” Frank pauses dramatically. “They get the net,” he screams, flailing his arms wildly.

“Oh, Jesus, dude,” mutters Charlie. He flops his face down into his hand and sighs, taking a moment to compose himself before turning back to Frank. “Look, it’s a common mistake, bro. But hey, listen: we’re not that kind of worm, so it’s _fine.”_

“We’re not?” Frank asks. “No. Of course we’re not. What kind are we, again?”

“The _other_ kind.”

“The other kind,” repeats Frank with a nod of his head. “Yes. Okay. _Exactly._ That’s not so bad, then, is it?”

“No, dude, it’s awesome! Now, do you want to play Nightcrawlers, or not? ‘Cause I got a new blanket with your name on it, pal.”  Charlie holds up the blue floral blanket in question. Like so many good things, he’d found in an alley, stashed next to some garbage cans. Held up to the light, the blanket looks to be in perfect condition, not a single hole or stain visible.

He sets aside the bag in which he found his treasure. A piece of paper still attached to the bag bears a cryptic notice, written in large, red letters. It reads:_ DRANGE!!! BEED BOGS!!!_ As many times as Charlie has repeated the message to himself, inside his head, it has yet to make sense. _Drange: beed bogs!_ In the morning, he’ll show the sign to Frank, so they can decode the secret message together.

In the meantime: Nightcrawlers. It's not the big reveal he'd been aiming for, but Charlie waves the blanket enticingly at Frank nevertheless. “What d’you say? You wanna take it for a test drive?”

“Yeah! Thanks, Charlie! That’s a real nice blanket,” Frank answers with a warm smile.

Charlie scoops up a blanket of his own off the futon, and makes his way back over to the lamp. He gives Frank one last dramatic look in the light —squinty-eyed, with one eyebrow quirked, like maybe some kind of supervillain — then he clicks the lamp off.

“Darkness creeps over the land,” Charlie begins in his best high-pitched, crackling, goblin-like voice. “The witching hour is upon us. The worms begin to stir. The _worming_ hour, too, is upon us. And now, in the light of the full moon, we become—”

Frank snorts loudly.

Charlie pauses. His eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark yet, so he can’t quite make out Frank’s face. But he hears Frank smacks his lips together noisily. Weird.

“The moon is full, and we become the—”

Frank lets out another snort. This time, it's a longer, even louder noise that becomes an obvious snore.

“Creatures of the night, goddamnit,” Charlie mutters, to himself now. “Alright, well, I guess that’s it, then.”

It’s not the first time Frank has fallen asleep in the middle of a game. Charlie shuffles back over to the bed, his blanket still draped over his head like a hood. He takes a couple quick hits of airplane glue from the bottle beside the bed. It hits him quickly, leaving behind a welcoming, dizzy high.

He slumps down onto the futon then, and curls up into the fetal position. The bed frame creaks ominously, but it’s never collapsed on them. Not yet. Charlie wriggles down farther into the squishy mattress and scoots backward, until he feels himself bump up against Frank.

It’s cozy inside his Nightcrawler cocoon-that-is-not-a-cocoon. Charlie will wake up in the morning, not a butterfly in a net, but still a Nightcrawler. (Maybe one day, he and Frank can develop a daytime spinoff series: Morningcrawlers. It wouldn’t be nearly as awesome as the original game. Still, it might satisfy the itch to play, on those days when the urge or inspiration hits far before nighttime.)

Frank snorts again and mumbles in his sleep. It's indistinct, but sounds relaxed and vaguely pleased. Not like a nightmare. Of course, if he has another nightmare, maybe that means they can actually finish that game of Nightcrawlers. And if Charlie has a nightmare of his own, well... same thing, then. Frank could probably bring himself to stay awake long enough to play a full game, if he were doing it for Charlie. 

“G’night, Frank,” Charlie mumbles. He can barely hear his own voice over the sound of Frank’s continued snoring, but that’s okay — it’s the thought that counts. It’s the spirit behind it that matters most.

Charlie drifts off to sleep and dreams of being a worm, cozy and safe under his Nightcrawlers blanket.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me rambling about the gang's childhood trauma on tumblr @chrundletheokay :P


End file.
